Skeleton
by Mindfreak Iero
Summary: Extacy. Weed. Heroine. Cocaine. Make it stop, please, make it stop. My Chemical Romance fan fiction: frerard. Frank Iero/Gerard Way slash romance.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating: NC-17  
Pairing: Frank Iero & Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance  
Warning: Contains slash, deals strongly with drug use/abuse. **

* * *

Trying to understand Gerard Way is like trying to understand advanced quantum physics; possible for a super genius, nearly impossible for the average human being. One day Gerard could be your best friend, then the next he's like a Nazi to a Jew. Very strong reference because it actually is a very strong contrast in emotions, especially for the run of merely twenty-four hours.

Of course, he does usually have good reasoning backing up his absurd behaviour, but most of the time it's out of pure instinct. I say instinct because Gerard was pretty much grown up knowing not to trust anyone, and to always watch his back.

Why?

Because Gerard Way was raised from items purchased with drug money. Both his mother and his father were in on the business of drug dealing, and once his father gained death from the show down of a late payment to the main man, Gerard was left being the man around the house.

Where is Gerard, today?

He's in the same house that he grew up in, only he's minus a father, and he's minus a mother (for similar reasons). Gerard's no idiot, though, like you'd imagine him to be. Oh no, after the death of his mother, Gerard moved away from the ghetto of Jersey and into the city where he graduated university with a Chemist's Major.

Of all things, why would Gerard want a Chemist's Major, right? Well, he's now filthy rich, living in a shit hole, making bath tubs filled with extacy for thirty bucks, and selling them for ten bucks a pill.

This is where I come in.

My name is Frank Iero, and I'm a young drug addict. I'm only eighteen years of age, while Gerard is twenty-three. I became addicted when I was just sixteen years old. I was only introduced to the world of 'stronger drugs' when Gerard came back from university to reinhabit his parent's old house. I had been just an amateur, smoking weed every other day.

Now, though, now is a different story all together. You wouldn't know me if you saw me today, I'm completely different from the stoner kid I used to be. You know, my old dred-locks and the light coloured tees and skateboarding shoes. Nah, all of that is old school, to me, now. Sure, I still pick up a guitar every now and then to keep me sane, but I'm far from who I used to be.

And it's Gerard Way's fault.


	2. Chapter 2

I hate mornings, especially in Jersey. Well, it's probably not the sate's fault for what I'm bitching about, it's probably just the fact that my fucking bedroom window is positioned perfectly for the sun to streel in through the glass window and fucking blind me in the mornings.

I roll over in my bed and pull all of covers up over my head. I groan slightly then wait for my morning headache to take over. It comes as scheduled, so I take that as my daily notice to get the fuck up and find some pills or some other shit. Crawling out of the bed, I briefly trip up in some discarded clothes from the previous night. I curse silently at the fact that I'm too damn lazy or high all the time to clean up after my self. It kind of makes me want to move back in with my mother, not that she'd have me, though, not after what I put her through.

I kick over a pile of clothes then wander down the short, white hall of my apartment. Yeah, I live in this shity one-house apartment. You know, the kind where the place in divided into two, and someone lives upstairs and someone lives downstairs? Yeah, one of those. I live upstairs, and I severely pity the poor fool who lives beneath me, if he hasn't already moved out.

I find my way to the kitchen, then I realize I'm practically naked, wearing nothing but a pair of dirty boxers. I scratch my tattooed stomach while I half-stretch. I yawn slightly then pull open the door to my old refrigerator. The light doesn't even work on it anymore, that gave out a couple of weeks ago.

It's not like I lived here long, though. Only a few months, maybe half a year, I can't quite recall much about the dates anymore.

I grab the carton of 'Tropicana' orange juice and spin off the stopper. I start drinking straight from the carton, guzzling down a few mouthfuls before I finally get the sense to get a glass. While pouring some up, I manage to spill it because I get distracted by the bottle of Tylenol that's on the counter. I lay the carton back down and take to the red tablets and swallow them dry. I take a mouthful of orange juice from my glass to wash them down with.

I lay my glass down on the cluttered kitchen table then push aside some dirty Tupperwear containers aside by the kitchen sink and pull down the door of the bread box. I grab two slices of white bread and leave the box open. Going back for my orange juice, I shove one of the slices halfway in my mouth then make a trail to the living room.

When I get in there, I notice my cat, Tango, laying down on the couch, snoring. I sit down next to her as I swallow the bites of bread I had taken. I lay my glass down on the coffee table and steal the remote. I flick the television on and switch it over to the DVD mode, where I have 'Viva La Bam' season four playing on repeat all the time. Tango stops snoring and stretches out. I glance over at her and she looks up at me. She looks really tired and when I touch her, her fur is really warm. After a few seconds, I see her nose start to flare out, she's sniffing at my bread. I tear off a piece of the soft bread and lay in down in front of her. She eats it in an instant.

"Weird cat," I mumble, more or less to myself. Well, obviously, to myself, since there's no one else around me, or even in the apartment with me.

I finish up eating what I consider my breakfast (even though I have no idea what time of day it is) and bring my dishes out into the kitchen and pile them in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes from last week some time.

It's rather drafty in the house, so I wander back to my room and grab a pair of faded blue jeans from the floor. I take off my boxers in order to get them on, then I wear them with nothing underneath. I pull on a pair of odd socks, then I search through my closet to find a half decent top for the day.

After a few seconds of consideration, I decide I want to wear the closest one to me, which happens to be a plain white tee shirt. I pull it over my chest then examine myself in the mirror. I have this crazy-ass hair style, and I don't remember how I got it. My hair is short and blonde on the sides, but you can see my natural dark hair colour showing through the roots, and I have this really long bang, it's black, and so annoying. It hangs out into my face and there's no keeping it under control. The bang goes all back through the center of my head then down the back like some half-assed faux-hawk.

I keep inspecting myself. I have a shit load of tattoos, now. And piercings. I have my lip and my nose pierced, both sporting identical silver hoops. I used to have my eyebrow done, but I was in a street fight not too long ago, just before moving out of my mother's place, and it ended up ripped through my brow. If you look hard enough, you can still see the scar. I had once considered going and getting it re-pierced, but I decided against it, for some reason. I can't really remember why, exactly.

I grab my wallet from my dresser and stuff it in my back pocket. I grab my hoody from the doorknob and push my arms through it. I zip it up and push the hood up.

"I'll be back later, puss," I call out to Tango. I always do something to let her know that I'm leaving.

It's time to go to Gerard's.


	3. Chapter 3

Gerard's house smells like shit. There can be two possible explanations for that. One, he doesn't clean up anything, or two, it's the smell that's spewed into the air when the chemicals form together to make extacy.

I'm leaning more towards the second one, myself, but the first one isn't far from the truth.

I don't even bother to kick off my shoes in the over crowded porch. (By overcrowded, I mean there's coats and shoes all over the floor, along with boxes filled with various objects that I'd rather not know about).

"Gerard!" I yell out, peeking my head around the living room arch and walking through the hall once I find out it's empty.

"Yeah?" I hear him call back to me. His voice sounds like it's coming from the downstairs 'laboratory'. He doesn't like having people down there, so I'm yet to know what it looks like, and chances are, I'm not going to find out.

"Come up!" I yell out, loud enough for him to hear him.

"All right, give me a second!"

I lean against the door frame of the living room and wait for him to finish up with whatever he's doing. By the time he actually does come up, he's wearing a white lab jacket, and has a doctor's mask covering his mouth and nose. He's also sporting these funky looking goggles.

I choke back a laugh at his appearance as he pulls the goggles off. They leave this weird red pressure line where they had been placed, though. He removes the mask, then snaps off the rubber gloves that I didn't notice he was wearing.

"So," Gerard starts, slipping the lab coat off of his shoulders and hanging it up on a nail that's sticking out of his hallway wall in the most random place, "the next batch isn't exactly ready yet, but I did something different," he explains, and I start to worry slightly, "wanna try 'em out with me, tonight?" he asks.

I stare at him for a second. I can't really say no, because well, I don't have a job, and I pay a certain...price for my products. Sometimes money, when I can, sometimes...other tasks. This offer being one of them.

"Uhm, sure," I say, accepting his invitation.

"Right on," he says with a smirk. He inspects me for a moment, then he glances into his living room and stares at the digital numbers on the clock. He looks back at me. "I take it you're here for your weed, right?" he asks, but he clearly knows the answer.

I nod before replying, "yep."

"Come on," he says, bobbing his head towards the staircase. I then decide to kick off my shoes. His lower level may be a dump, but his upstairs is pretty much spotless. It amuses me, sometimes. Well, more like all the time, because how the fuck can someone be a dirt-bag downstairs, but then a fucking Saint or some shit, upstairs? I never will understand that man.

We jog lightly up over the stairs then we go down the super-slim hallway to his bedroom. Anyone who's on the larger side of the human race wouldn't get down there. I only have about two inches out from either of my shoulders while I'm walking down there, and I look like I'm anorexic or something. I'm not very...manly built.

Walking down his hallway always gives me this scary-as-shit feeling. It makes me feel like I'm getting swallowed by plywood or something. It's a very claustrophobic feeling. While I'm wacked out, I feel like a trapped body, and that I'm never going to get out. It's obviously not the best feeling ever.

His doorway is worse. It's like his family was fucking sticks or something while they were growing up. Both myself and Gerard have to turn on our side to get through. It's a really tiny doorway, but I guess since we're pretty much in the 'ghetto' of Jersey, it was for security reasons. I mean, really, how many little fucking twigs are going to break into your house? Not many, so chances are, the bigger person wouldn't attempt to get through, for fear of getting stuck. It's human nature, really. If you see a small space, your body is not going to trust enough to go through it, so you'll get a really queasy feeling.

Once we get inside, though, his room feels fucking huge, even though it's not. It's probably because your body is feeling a relief from going through the insane hallway plus door setting.

"How much do you want?" he asks me, pulling out the top drawer to his bedside table.

I pull the wallet out of my back pocket and flip open the brown leather. Gerard waits for a few seconds before approaching me. He leaves the drawer open as he does. He's so close to me that I can feel his breath on my skin, and I can tell that he's probably had one or two drinks already today. Although, that's nothing out of the ordinary.

I look at him, and I can tell that he doesn't want my money for this round.


	4. Chapter 4

Gerard smiles at me suggestively, purring in his humanly way while his hands trickle over the exposed skin on my neck. "You up for it?" he asks me very kindly with a slur, though I know that I really don't have a choice...not that I want one. I nod, but not making myself look too desperate for something that's his idea to begin with.

He doesn't even say anything else to me, just detaches from my body and looks down to his belt, fiddling with the buckle until he gets it off and his pants down. He pushes his underwear down with it and I watch as he takes himself in his hand. He bobs his head towards the wall and I know right away that it's time for me to resume position.

I first take off my pants, knowing that it would be stupid for me not to, seeing as being naked from the waist down is the slightest bit mandatory for such an act to take place. I lean up against the cold wall of Gerard's bedroom and wait for him to wrap his junk then coat it. He mounts me, already gasping from the non-existent intimacy of the overused moment.

I get chills at the feeling of his hand at my lower back, rubbing the slight curve where my body bends in, giving me an almost-feminine figure. His hand strokes up and down over my ass before he gives me a firm slap. I wince but hide my true feelings. It's amazing how far I'm willing go to for both some weed and to get laid.

I feel him shift around behind me, probably working himself into a better 'on demand' erection that he was previously sporting. His cold hands spread my cheeks apart. One of his fingers penetrates me for mere seconds before the tension is replaced with the head of his thick cock. My mouth gaps open as I feel him shift within me. I love the feeling that I get when he first digs into my heat.

His fingers drive into my sides up under my shirt and I rock my hips back onto him, managing to elect myself a slight moan from deep inside of him. After thrusting into me to the point that I feel like I'm going to orgasm without having any contact to my leaking dick, he reaches in front and remembers that I have my needs, too, while helping him along.

His fingers encircle my cock, drawing more clear fluids from me as he starts to pump and stroke me, making my knees go weak from the double pleasure of him plunging against my prostate and giving my swollen length such sweet attention.

I find that sex never lasts long anymore, because within two or three more furious strokes on my member, I spill my seed over his hand, and shortly after that, his fingers grip my side harder and he fills the plastic with a muffled grunt.

We clean up after that, he tosses the used condom out, and I pull up my pants and crash on his bed for a little while. He comes and lays down next to me as he pulls out a bag of weed.

"This should do you for the week, right?" he asks me.

"It should, yeah," I say, "but if not, I have more money and I'm pretty sure you don't turn down a blow job."

He laughs at me because he knows that it's the truth. Gerard's not one for relationships, but he loves his sex, and that's an understatement right there, if I do say so myself.

"So, what did you do different with this batch of extacy?" I get around to asking him. I might as well ask while I'm sober, it's not going to come to me to worry about it later on.

"Eh, you know," he says, turning over to face me, "a little bit of this...a little bit of that."

"Anything dangerous?" I ask.

"Oh, because extacy is so fucking healthy for you," he laughs, reaching his hands up to rest them behind his head.

"Seriously, though," I say.

"Nah, nothing too bad, you should just get higher...quicker," he explains. He must know what he's talking about, I mean, he's been making extacy for the longest time. "Why, don't you trust me?" he asks.

Trust? No. I do not trust Gerard Way, I do not trust anyone that's involved with Gerard Way, just like other people don't trust him, or me, because I'm involved with him. If there's something you need to know, it's that you cannot trust someone like him. He can turn on you and get someone to fucking kill you faster than you try and fucking kill yourself, and that's a fact.

"Just don't wanna die yet," I say very casually so that I don't arise any suspicions.

"You won't," he assures me. He must be telling the truth, because if I die (or someone else dies) from taking his product, he's going out of business and then he's going to be shit-poor.


	5. Chapter 5

I took his extacy, and I'm higher than a fucking plane flying six billion feet up into the air, and that's not even possible. Yeah, that's how fucking high I am right now.

"I'm falling at like, twenty kilometers an hour," I laugh, trying to catch my balance after tripping up in a pile of clothes that was left in the hallway for any random person to fall victim to.

"You fucking retard," Gerard laughs after me, he's after injecting a pill as well, "we use miles in America."

I burst out laughing even harder and make my way to the couch so I can collapse without smashing my brains all over Gerard's carpet. I feel like I'm in a dream, and everything is going way too slow for me, even though I'm falling through the surface I'm being supported by at a rapid pace.

"I need some water," I mumble, turning my head to the side so that I wasn't talking with a mouthful of chesterfield.

I barely have the words out of my mouth when a bottle of water comes skyrocketing towards my head, and then my plan to not spill my brains on Gerard's floor nearly defeats itself regardless. I move out of the way as the bottle snaps off the end of the couch and rolls onto the floor, somehow staying closed.

I reach down and grab the cancer-causing plastic bottle and take three tiny sips from the contents. Even though I'm thirsty, I don't want my bladder to burst. Extacy causes you to not go to the bathroom, so drinking a lot isn't a good idea. Especially with Gerard's, seeing as his has something different to make the effects stronger...and better.

Gerard walks over to me and sits down on my back. I can feel my disks sliding together from the previous uses of extacy draining my spinal fluids. "Umph," I groan.

"What's wrong?" he asks me.

"It's hurting my back," I tell him, trying my best not to squirm to make the slight pain worse.

"Oh." He shifts and moves off of my back, but roughly pulls me up by my chest so that I'm in this awkward sitting position and half straddled over his body unwillingly. "This better?" he asks me with a high-grin. I can tell he's wacked, more so than I am, because chances are, he took something else along with his.

"Mm," I groan, "I suppose," I usher, trying to sort myself out so that I can be at least somewhat comfortable.

Gerard lays his hand on my lap and I start to feel slightly uncomfortable. He looks over at me while my eyes burn deep holes into his hand. "You wanna be loved, don't you Frankie," he stats, not making it sound like a question.

I glance up at him, my eyes dilated with substance abuse.

"It's okay, I wanna be loved, too," he tells me, moving his hand further up my thigh. I find the motion weird and foreign, since we've fucked numerous times already. Well, I suppose all those useless fucks were just payments at the checkout.

"Yeah?" I ask, getting nervous. I can't seem to act right, my body is reacting positive to Gerard's hand crawling up my thigh, and it's defiantly because of the extacy. They don't call it the 'love drug' for nothing, you know.

"Yeah," he mumbles, edging closer to me. His hips are touching mine and his hand is covering the front of my jeans, he can probably feel my inflating cock to his fingertips, and he's probably laughing at me on the inside. That's Gerard for you, he's not someone you want to get involved with. I can never say it enough. "I miss my family, you know," he confesses to me, and now I know there was defiantly something wrong with his pills, because he never admits that he has human-like feelings.

"Oh?" I ask, not really knowing what to say to that.

"Yeah," he continues, "who would have thought?"

I laugh lightly, still feeling very awkward, seeing as his hand is kneading me through my jeans just like my dick is a fucking pile of dough.

"So come on, tell me, do you wanna be loved?" he continues to poke and tear at my private life. Well, it's not like I have much of a private life. Ever since I met Gerard, my life has pretty much revolved around him and where I'm going to get my next fix. Oh, and taking care of Tango. I don't want the SPCA on my back.

"Yeah," I weakly confess, "I wanna be loved."

"How much do you wanna be loved?" he continues to ask, and he's starting to press my buttons.

"I don't know," I tell him.

"Come on, do you wanna be loved a lot?" His hand rubs me with more pressure backing it up. "Maybe just a little?" he asks. "Or maybe," he starts off, pulling my zipper down, "you just wanna have the sense of a tiny spark of love behind each cheap fuck you give out."

I look over at him, confused and hurt by his final statement. He's pulling at my heartstrings and making me come undone, starting with my inner organs then moving to the outer organs, such as my cock, which he's wrapping his hand around right now.

"Are you a whore, Frankie?" he asks me. My throat goes dry and I swallow hard. I'm thirsty, but I can't drink too much more, it'll damage my bladder to too much of an extent. "You can tell me," he says, "you can tell me all about what you do when you're not here, giving me what I want. Do you give other guys what they want, too?" he asks.

I'm starting to get hot and pestered as his fingers twirl over my head and skilfully trace down the underside before dragging tightly back up.

"N-no," I stammer out, not liking where our conversation is going.

"Oh? So my cock is the only one you suck? The only one you let–" He tugs on my length before thumbing over the head. I start to pant and sweat. ".—sink into your ass every time you need weed?" he finishes.

"Yes," I reply with a high-pitched voice that obviously tells him I'm about to blow my fucking load for the second time that day. Even though he's delivering me a fair amount of pleasure, my cock still feels sore and wants to be left alone.

"Why is that, Frankie?" he asks me, bringing his hand to a stop, squeezing my head to prolong my climax. I hiss from his procrastination.

"I don't know."

"Do you want me to love you, Frankie?" he asks, and my breathing hitches in my throat. He runs his thumb over my slit then stops once more. "I can love you, you know, I'm capable of that much." His hand starts an even pump once again, but it's slow and tantalising. I feel like I'm being engulfed by an oven as the sweat drips down over my forehead.

"I know," I tell him, not know what else to say.

"Would you love me, back?" he asks. "I'm not going to give you love if you're not going to return it, that isn't fair."

I look over and catch his gaze. I don't know who I'm seeing, because I know it's not Gerard. Gerard doesn't have these kinds of feelings, and he defiantly doesn't have these kinds of conversations. I'm just another customer to him...just another customer whose cock he has gripped in his hands.

"So, would you love me, Frankie?"

I see him leaning in towards me, then his breath is hot against my face, and his shadow is covering my eyes, then his lips are devouring my own, and my come is rushing through my cock at the spark of the moment, then I'm kissing my biggest fear with a sticky mess coating us both.

"Yeah."


End file.
